


Their Sound

by KZSD25



Category: Wicked - All Media Types
Genre: Elphaba is a musician, I shall not apologize for the sentence length, Other, and Glinda is their muse, modern au?, nb!Elphaba, nor the amount of time I spent scouring the thesaurus, terribly long sentences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-19 20:03:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17008302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KZSD25/pseuds/KZSD25
Summary: If Glinda thought too much on it, she became worried her presence was no longer needed for Elphaba's music career. But as Elphaba continued to keep their appointments, whether or not any work was done that day, Glinda let herself enjoy their newly morphed companionship. She liked spending time with Elphaba too much to question whatever it was their dynamic was. For it certainly wasn't simply artist and muse—mortal and goddess—anymore. They were both being entirely too human for that.





	Their Sound

**Author's Note:**

> written nearly entirely at 4.30am, but completed and edited at a more reasonable time so hopefully it's comprehensible and not pure sleep-deprived drivel

She was only with Elphaba because of some queer artistic quirk. Or, that's what she thought, not that Elphaba gave any indication otherwise. She was their muse, lounging around—to appreciate but never to touch—while Elphaba composed music and scripted lyrics. Glinda was the silence to Elphaba’s symphony, the assumed audience in an attic auditorium. And how Glinda enjoyed being the audience. Elphaba seemed to excel at whatever they turned their hand to. The finest operatics; playful, sultry jazz; slow, lullabic meditatives. Lonely concertos and bombastic orchestrals. Sonatas and cantatas in a myriad colors. At least one composition for each form of rock, alternate, soft, or otherwise. There was even a pop song or two in their portfolio, addressed to an indifferent, implied _you_.

The world loved Elphaba. Elphaba, with their near mystical mastery of any (and every) instrument found under their fingers. To say nothing of their voice. It was wickedly bewitching, with its gravelly lows that could smooth out to the clearest bell tones. Glinda could live on that voice alone. When she first heard that silvered tongue curl around the syllables of her own name, Glinda's whole worldview of what she found arousing drastically shifted and narrowed to center around those two syllables spoken as such.

And, it seemed to Glinda, Elphaba only loved their muse (second only to their music). Their virgin goddess of Greek design, complete with sculpted curves, marbleine skin, and a golden halo. Forever unattainable to Elphaba, the mere mortal, who could only worship in melodies.

On days Elphaba was not caught in a frenetic, creative rush, and Glinda kept on her favorite sweater (the heat regularly broke in Elphaba's attic studio, and it got nippy in winter), they talked of anything and everything.

Much like their music, Elphaba could wax poetry with simple conversation. Glinda hung off every word just to hear the sounds of them, and then was surprised when she started to listen to their content as well. Elphaba had some natural talent to make people want to listen, despite their cutting sarcasm and caustic wit. Glinda found herself thinking deeply, critically, probably for the first time in her life, about such things as politics, religion, science, and culture. If let go on, Elphaba could spend hours hotly debating themselves on Animal rights and corruption in secular Unionism. Pacing agitatedly about the room with barely-contained energy. Elegant hands piercing the air as their voice rose dramatically. And did Glinda ever let them go on, if only to hear more of that addictive voice.

When Elphaba wasn't in the mood to get worked up over their own opinions, Glinda would talk of her own spheres of interest. Fashion, and people, and architecture. Aesthetic beauty and interpersonal relations, two topics Elphaba was as unknowledgeable in—and as apathetic to—as Glinda had been of Quadling slavery and genetic discrimination (that is, before she met Elphaba). Sometimes, Glinda thought Elphaba was actually invested in Glinda's passions, as common and frivolous as they were. There were times Elphaba would lean forward in that uncomfortable high-backed chair they insisted they fold themselves into (they always had Glinda take the upholsted monolith that could easily fit two more Glindas and refused to purchase or even bring upstairs a cushioned one for themself), sharp elbows on knees and sharper chin cradled in a palm, staring intently—and for all the world _fascinated_ —at Glinda as she gesticulated whatever finer point of clothing combination or architectural advancement she was currently enamored with. It almost made Glinda feel smart. Why else would the cleverest person she knew be interested in what she had to say?

The first time Glinda made Elphaba laugh, she had just about fallen over in shock. (She doesn’t even remember what she’d said, only that Elphaba had found it inordinately hilarious and that she’d felt a little proud for making the indominable Elphaba laugh.) That _cackle_ , for lack of a better word, was so unlike the rest of Elphaba's vocal repertoire. It grated on the nerves and erupted violently through the silence. It was altogether quite off-putting. Perhaps Glinda had expected a low, musical laugh like their chosen art, or a dry chuckle to match their humor. But as time wore on and Glinda wrung out more of those cackles, she found them oddly fitting. Sharp and abrupt, like Elphaba themself, and unapologetically, disturbingly unique. Glinda made it her life's goal to hear more of them.

* * *

Glinda was the one that broke their routine. She invited Elphaba out for coffee. Just to talk. To be friends, as it were. She hadn't expected Elphaba to accept, but, really, Glinda could never predict what Elphaba would or wouldn't do.

And so they met for the first time outside of Elphaba's attic. It was a local coffee house, one Glinda frequented, and Elphaba had shown up precisely on time, scarf wrapped half up their face to hide as much green as possible. Glinda playfully tugged it down as they ordered, so that the barista could actually hear the mumble of _coffee, black_. They sat outside, breath misting and mingling in the crisp air. Glinda was nervous about the date (was it a date? what do you call such an outing with such a friend? was Elphaba even a friend?), about talking with Elphaba outside of their strange, isolated bubble of artistry in the attic. She had never seen Elphaba outside of that building, and she had secretly believed Elphaba couldn't exist outside of it. As if they had tried to step across the doorway, they would simply disappear only to reappear somewhere deep in the shadows of their house.

The whole coffee affair went surprisingly, delightfully well. (Somewhere in those fleeting hours, Elphaba had become Elphie, and Glinda beamed at the sight of slightly discolored green ears—the beginning of a blush.) And after, there were more. They increased in frequency and regularity, until Glinda saw Elphaba as much in the coffee house as in the home attic. And even then, Elphaba had begun to waylay Glinda from climbing the stairs to the studio, drawing her into conversation over the kitchen counter, instant coffee from Elphaba's kettle set between them. More than once, they stayed at the counter, cold coffee long forgotten as night crept up on them and Glinda realized she had never taken off her coat and that Elphaba hadn't touched an instrument or music sheet in all that time.

And yet, for all it seemed Glinda was neglecting her duty as muse, Elphaba's creative output was as strong as ever. If Glinda thought too much on it, she became worried her presence was no longer needed for Elphaba's music career. But as Elphaba continued to keep their appointments, whether or not any work was done that day, Glinda let herself enjoy their newly morphed companionship. She liked spending time with Elphaba too much to question whatever it was their dynamic _was_. For it certainly wasn't simply artist and muse—mortal and goddess—anymore. They were both being entirely too human for that.

And then came the day that changed everything.

Glinda arrived at Elphaba's house to find them bent over the stove, spine rigid and shoulders vibrating with compressed (repressed?) emotion. She belatedly noticed a letter torn open and discarded on the counter. At Glinda's hesitant touch, Elphaba had turned their face away, but not before Glinda saw eyes bloodshot from unshed tears. No, that wasn't quite it, because the green skin around their eyes was blotchy, and rough, and somehow distressingly _red_. Elphaba continued to hide their face away from Glinda and refused to respond to any of her gentle questions. Finally, completely fed up and more than a little scared of the brazen, bold Elphaba acting so _broken_ , Glinda grabbed Elphaba's chin, forced them to look at her (were those _burns_ under their eyes?), and said in her best Now You Listen To Me tone that under no circumstances was Glinda going to leave Elphaba alone. That she would stay here all night if she had to just to see Elphaba smile again (sharp teeth be damned).

She might have even stamped her foot.

That was when Glinda learned of such a thing as a water allergy. And that Elphaba had a father. Logically, Glinda knew Elphaba had to have parents, presumably two of them. Elphaba couldn't have sprung fully formed into the world, all green skin and biting opinions. But for all their talk, Elphaba had never talked about their family, their childhood, or anything really that had happened before Glinda stumbled into Elphaba's life.

But today, here, in this kitchen where the air seemed thick with unsaid _everything_ , now that Elphaba had started they couldn't stop. They shouted and writhed and ranted. And Glinda let them, and listened, and slowly the halting, stumbling words settled into something more like what Glinda was used to. It was a relief as Glinda watched Elphaba's anger and pain drain away to a manageable ache. Yet as the emotions fled Elphaba, they took new residence in Glinda, who, as Elphaba talked, grew angrier and angrier at a man she had never met, a woman who was dead, and siblings who, admittedly, didn't draw as much ire but were still tied up in the whole convoluted mess.

Glinda fully recognized she didn't even know the half of it. Elphaba was as vague as possible, but there were too many tense pauses and skipped words for Glinda not to guess the shape of things. And so Glinda folded and tucked away her own anger to safely diffuse later.

Finally, Elphaba had talked themselves down and seemed to have run out of words. At Glinda's prompting, she was able to locate the bottle of oil salve for the burns Elphaba's tears had seared into their face. When Elphaba made no move for the bottle, Glinda took it on herself to tip oil onto a clean cloth and gently dab at the bubbled, raw skin. It was something of an awkward reach, Glinda being a bit short and Elphaba quite tall. She ran her thumb over uninjured skin and marveled at the smoothness of it. She realized, then, that she had never touched Elphaba before, not really. Not intentionally. And now she's done it, she doesn't want to stop.

She set the oil and cloth aside and both hands went up to Elphaba's face, smoothing lines of tension and softly gliding over those sharp, sharp features. Elphaba breathed in halting shudders, the aftermath of their emotional outpouring. Glinda looked up from her trailing fingers and caught Elphaba's eyes. Still red, although dark and slightly unfocused. One of her thumbs absentmindedly traced Elphaba's lips as she tried to divine the future from Elphaba's eyes.

It was a surprise, although it wasn't really, when Elphaba leaned forward and brushed their lips to Glinda's, her thumb still caught between them. A small noise escaped Glinda, and her hands moved out of the way as she stretched for a more proper kiss. Still light, still gentle, Glinda's hands cradling Elphaba's face as they barely made contact.

Light and gentle didn't last forever. Couldn’t, really, with all those unsaid things still hanging around them. Glinda's hands drifted into Elphaba's hair ( _Oz, that hair_ ) as theirs secured themselves on Glinda's hips. Light and gentle turned to heavy and desperate turned to slow and languorous. And everything in between. Noses bumped and teeth clacked and hands wandered.

And between breaths, between kisses, Glinda found her favorite sound Elphaba could make.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what this was supposed to be or where it went to but here it is. Enjoy, if you'd like.


End file.
